Curtain Call
by Dana E. Vassy
Summary: A trip to London, a kidnapped actress and an evil hamster like villain


Title: Curtain Call (1/6)  
Author: Dana E. Vassy  
Rating: PG 13, although some scenes are more harrowing   
than others.  
Category: Story, MSR, non-episodic.  
Spoilers: Slight Detour, nothing much else.  
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully and Skinner are the property   
of CC, 1013 and Fox. No profit being made. Sunset   
Boulevard, the musical is copyright of the Really Useful   
Group, based on an idea by Billy Wilder. I won't do any   
damage, and although I never actually paid for my   
tickets, please let me play... Mary, I now own you   
family, just try to sue me..  
Feedback: Send me it, or I'll hurt you like that beast   
woman, Mulder. You get the point.   
scullys_no_slut@viceprez.fsnet.co.uk  
Distribution: Anywhere and everywhere, just drop me a   
line at the above addy first...  
Thanks to: Mary and her mad ideas on Yahoo. And   
Nickerless the human air timetable.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
London, 4:30am  
* * * * * * * *   
"And after we see the Tower of London, I figured we   
should go past Buckingham Palace. Then we need to have   
lunch at.."  
  
"Mulder. Shut up."  
  
"Yeah, but lunch, we should.."  
  
"I may not have my gun, but I will get one for the   
sole purpose of killing you, should you continue. Yes, I   
admit you know a lot more about London, but I want to   
enjoy my trip. So just keep your mouth closed until I   
get sleep that isn't wrecked by mid-Atlantic turbulence."  
  
Making their way through Heathrow Airport, they could   
have been just another couple bickering after a long   
flight. But these were no ordinary people, and by   
conventional definition, they weren't a couple. Fox   
Mulder gave a good-hearted grin as he halted his barrage   
of tourist information. His partner Dana Scully was   
dishevelled from her flight, but still looked a force to   
be reckoned with. In London representing the FBI at an   
international crime conference, they knew they had really   
pissed off the authorities above them. But hunting   
aliens tended to be exhausting, so they took the chance   
of a holiday while it presented itself.  
  
Terminal four was brimming over with people, milling   
about waiting for their loved ones. Mulder recognised   
the boy who had kicked the back of his seat all the way   
from DC, tormenting his family with airline trivia by the   
look of it. The sister was giving the boy the same glare   
Sam had reserved for Mulder babbling about Star Trek.   
The pilot had arrived, doing the British Airways courtesy   
number. Before anyone could thank him for the relatively   
uneventful flight, the young boy had accosted him.   
Mulder instinctively edged closer, this had potential.   
  
"My name is Nick, well Nicholas. What's your   
nickname?"  
  
"Well, little guy, back home, they call me Top gun"  
  
Mulder resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  
  
"That's stupid. So, boxers or briefs?"  
  
'Score Nick', Mulder thought. Mr Perfect deflated by a   
kid.  
  
"That's personal information, sonny. Boxers," he   
added at Nick's insistent glare.  
  
Satisfied for the moment, Nick was dragged off by his   
parents to mutters of "Next time, David, you can take   
them yourself" and "He's your son too, Fiona" The girl   
smirked contentedly, and followed the embarrassed menage   
to baggage claim.  
  
The pilot looked utterly mortified. Mulder was content   
in his smugness, until he heard an all too familiar   
voice.  
  
"Well I don't think Top Gun is that bad, I loved the   
film."  
  
"Thanks, what they got a pretty lady like you in   
London for?"  
  
"Work, unfortunately. But I get some free time"  
  
Scully was honest-to-God flirting in front of him.   
Mulder was torn between the urge to pick her up caveman   
style, punch Mr top flop, or hide in a corner. He hated   
playing the spare part, especially when Scully went for   
no-brainers. If only she'd flirt with him, at least so   
he could assume she meant it.   
  
"Don't suppose you're taking over from Jerry Hall in   
that play? I'm not usually that lucky.."  
  
Oh God, flirtatious laughter, this was unbearable. And   
what sort of cheese ball line was that?  
  
"No, I'm an FBI agent. But hey, I was reviewing my   
career options.."  
  
Beneath his obviously fake tan, top flop had paled   
considerably. He looked more uncomfortable than someone   
who'd just seen Diana Fowley naked.  
  
"FBI? Well, I really have to go... tighten the wheels   
on the plane. I'll see you around."  
  
Mulder felt a pang of sympathy for his partner. But he   
quickly disguised it as she spun on her heel to face him.   
With an air of nonchalance, he looked with exaggerated   
fervour for the baggage claim, even though he knew   
exactly where to go.  
  
Scully scanned the crowd looking for the consort who   
would take them where they needed to go. Seeing no one,   
she turned to Mulder who had a slightly fearful look on   
his face.  
  
"Mulder, it doesn't look like there's anyone here for   
us"  
  
"Yeah, um don't get mad, but, I told them not to   
bother." He paused to see the anger clouding over her   
tired expression. "I know my way to Kensington, and   
we've got a rental car, and just don't worry, ok?"  
  
His tone seemed reassuring enough, her rage succumbing to   
an overworked body clock.   
  
"Just don't get us lost, and remember it's the other   
side of the road."  
  
Their journey passed without incident, Scully only   
awakening as Mulder drew up at the hotel. A nice old   
building, Scully noticed as her eyes adjusted to the   
greying light. Then she noticed the bellhop coming to   
help her out of the car. Strange, that wasn't normal for   
a hotel on their budget. Catching Mulder's sly grin, she   
looked up to see the Hilton group logo. Then she really   
looked at the building, the discreet 'Welcome to   
Kensington Hilton' sign almost making her dizzy.   
Mulder's gaze said "I'll explain later", so she let   
herself be treated like a lady for a change. Their   
luggage was taken straight to the rooms at Mulder's   
request. It was still early, and breakfast seemed like   
effort. So, Scully sensibly asked to be shown to her   
room.  
  
It was beautiful. The twelfth floor suite just oozed   
luxury. How the Bureau had agreed to this was beyond   
her, but those bed cushions looked too inviting for her   
to argue. Only just managing to undress, Scully slipped   
naked under the covers, unwilling to dredge pyjamas from   
the depths of her suitcase. Besides, she could be a   
little wild on holiday.  
  
PART 2  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Kensington Hilton, 12:30pm  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Scully started as she awoke in the unfamiliar room.   
Sensing her lack of clothing, she was even more tense.   
Then her memory came flooding back as the early afternoon   
light penetrated the foggy recesses of her brain. She   
was in London for a conference; she had been too   
shattered to find pyjamas. And she'd had a knock back   
from a semi-attractive criminal British Airways pilot.   
What a start to the trip. Still, it could only get   
better.  
  
The warm steaming shower caressed away the last remnants   
of the arduous flight. It annoyed Scully that she still   
had problems with aeroplanes, but at least she could   
disguise the paralysing fear. The bickering family on   
the plane had been a welcome distraction, their   
conversations ranging from football teams to muttered   
threats about 'sporks', whatever they were. Some British   
eccentricity perhaps? Resident expert Mulder would   
probably know, not that she was likely to ask him. She   
let her preoccupations melt that little bit further as   
the coconut lather cleaned her rain-frizzed hair. A   
shower had never felt so good.  
  
Drying herself with the hotel towels, she noticed a more   
lifelike expression staring back at her from the ornate   
mirror. Time to get to work, Dr Scully. In the   
beautiful white robe, she set about readying herself for   
the afternoon's icebreaker.  
  
Having combed her damp hair, she re-entered the bedroom   
to find Mulder gazing out of her window. His bags were   
dumped at the foot of the bed, and his leather jacket   
occupied the space in the bed she had vacated.  
  
"Nice to see you, Mulder. But why is all your stuff   
in my room? I need to get dressed, pretty soon   
remember."  
  
"And why would you want to do that?" The glint in his   
eye was encouraging to say the least. "There's a slight   
problem, Scully.  
  
"A buddy of mine set up the accommodation, I couldn't   
handle another cheap motel deal. But the clown booked   
one double room instead of two singles. He sort of   
'misinterpreted' the term partner."  
  
"They don't have another room free, Scully. But don't   
worry, I'll take the couch."  
  
If looks could kill, Scully would be charged with his   
murder. He wasn't that bad a roommate, surely?   
Probably still moody from Top flop's rejection. Well,   
she would just have to get on with it.  
  
He left her to dress, and went for a much-needed shower.   
Feeling refreshed, he quickly smarted up and put on one   
of his trusty Armani suits. Not that he was arrogant,   
but he looked damn fine when he made the effort. And if   
that didn't get Scully's attention, nothing ever would.  
  
Having left a sufficient interval, he made his return to   
the main room. Finding Scully cursing at her make-up   
bag, he went to read the courtesy newspapers in the   
lounge. While his buddy Michael had a problem with   
accuracy, his taste was pretty hot. If only he could get   
used to the luxury. But before he did, whirlwind Scully   
swept in to get him in motion. Heaven forbid they miss a   
second of the boring speeches.  
  
Sitting in their rather comfortable rental car, Mulder   
let Scully fiddle with the radio as he warmed the engine.   
October in London wasn't as pleasant as he remembered.   
Fortunately, they only had a lightweight introduction to   
the conference to suffer this afternoon.  
  
* * * * * * * * *   
5pm, same day  
* * * * * * * * *  
Hell didn't even begin to describe it. Mulder had always   
loved Hyde Park, and the huge marquee had looked almost   
promising. Instead, Scully had ditched him, leaving him   
to be chatted up by some hyperactive blonde detective.   
The suit had the desired effect on everyone, except the   
one it was aimed at. Bored to distraction through the   
multi-lingual speeches, his first thought was to get   
straight to a bar.  
  
He met Scully at the entrance, joking with people who   
just looked like pathologists. Tearing herself away at   
last, her mood seemed to have improved. She noted   
Mulder's surly demeanour, but opted to pretend nothing   
was wrong. Hitting the horrible rush hour traffic, she   
casually enquired what Mulder's plans were for the   
evening. His shrug grated on her nerves, but being the   
consummate professional, she soldiered on.  
  
"I thought we could see a show. Choice of two."  
He simply glared, then returned to his absorption with   
the frantic traffic.   
  
"The King and I, or Sunset Boulevard. It would be   
nice to have some culture for a change. Which do you   
prefer?"  
  
"Well, I'm not going to see the King and I. Does that   
help?"  
  
"Fine, sulky. Sunset it is. We've to pick up the   
tickets at the box office at seven. Think you can manage   
that? And before you ask, the Adelphi does have a bar."  
  
That seemed to satisfy him. Putting the radio on, Scully   
consciously searched for a soft rock station. After all,   
they say music soothes the savage beast, so probably best   
to pander to that beast's taste. Having averted the   
impending row, Scully thought that the London trip was   
shaping up a lot better through time. People had been   
genuinely interested in her this afternoon; she wasn't   
just a plebe from the basement to them. Although she   
would never turn from the X-Files, it made a welcome   
change to be a normal FBI agent again. And tonight, she   
could go to the theatre like a tourist, forget about life   
for a while. Acting had always held her interest – it   
was so different from her career path. And when your   
life was in danger every week, any job without that sort   
of threat was appealing. It was also a chance to get   
dressed up, show Mulder just how sassy she could be. He   
obviously didn't pay any attention to her in office wear.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *   
Charing Cross Tube Station, 6:55pm  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *   
"It's not my fault I couldn't find my good shirt"  
  
"Yes it is. You could unpack like someone who   
finished grade school. Now, move it."  
  
Mulder rested his arm on Scully's lower back as he guided   
her onto the Strand. The Adelphi was a fair distance   
along, and she had opted for killer heels with her   
outfit. He focussed on the heels to detract his   
attention from the very low neckline on her top. This   
show had better keep his interest, he didn't want to   
drool. Sunset Boulevard? Why had he agreed to this?   
Maybe they could take in a soccer match to pay her back.  
  
After a frantic rush for their tickets, they hurried to   
their seats. Really good ones at that. When pressed   
Scully just smiled and muttered something above having   
her own contacts. As the overture started, conversation   
ceased. Mulder had expected the darkness of the theatre   
to solve his staring problem, but their proximity meant   
the stage lighting would keep Scully a little too   
illuminated for him to get away with it. Damn.  
  
He settled down, smirking as the female lead came on.   
She was hardly a Hollywood beauty. He tried his damndest   
to concentrate, but a new distraction caught his eye.   
The guy two rows in front, twitching every time the   
actress moved towards the front of the stage. Not   
wanting to pry, Mulder tried once more to absorb the   
jangling Lloyd Webber melodies. He even tried counting   
the stairs on the huge staircase. But the guy was   
definitely causing him problems. He had a strange aura   
about him, unsettling Mulder's detective instincts. This   
carried on throughout the first act.  
  
Even at the bar at the intermission, Mulder found his   
eyes drawn to the dark-haired man. If his target was   
aware of being surveilled, he made no indication, but   
buried his head in the souvenir programme. Mulder went   
to purchase one for his partner, as the vendor's position   
gave him a better vantage point for the stranger.  
  
Scully's beaming smile told him he had scored brownie   
points on his return. Momentarily, he forgot about the   
peculiar theatregoer, and chatted with the contented   
Scully about how fantastic the music was. To him, it was   
okay, but he had now seen what a closest musicals fan   
Dana Scully was. Totally unlike her, but she did tend to   
keep him guessing.  
  
And she managed to get his undivided attention during the   
second act, by resting her little hand on his thigh. It   
was all he could do to breathe normally. He kept   
sneaking sideways glances, but it didn't seem to be an   
invitation to more. Besides, she'd probably kill him for   
interrupting the play.  
  
Scully even let him drape his arm over her shoulders as   
they left the packed Adelphi. Standing on the street, he   
offered her a meal to say thanks for the show. Without   
hesitation, she accepted. Mulder felt like a finish line   
was in sight; all they had needed was some relaxation to   
let them get closer. Then they both heard the spine-  
chilling scream from the stage door. Breaking into a   
sprint, they rounded the corner in time to see a van   
skidding off. A hysterical stagehand stood in the open   
doorway.   
"We're, um, we're police officers. Can you tell us   
what just happened, please?"  
  
"Marion, he took, her. He took Marion."  
  
Mulder looked questioningly at his partner.  
  
"Marion Bickerstaff? She was playing Norma tonight?"  
  
The employee nodded her agreement. With tear-stained   
cheeks, she asked what was going to happen.  
  
"We'll have to go check some things. Have you called   
911, I mean 999?" Mulder enquired.  
  
"Bill was doing it. We couldn't stop the man, he   
took.. Marion"  
  
Scully led the girl back inside, closely flanked by   
Mulder. As she did, she saw all notions of a relaxing   
holiday float away.  
  
PART 3  
  
Marion regained consciousness to find herself in a rather   
turbulent form of motion. Judging from her dim and dusty   
surroundings, she was in the back of a filthy transit   
van. The front was sectioned off, and she had no idea   
who was driving. While she was no rocket scientist, the   
coarse ropes around her aching joints indicated it was   
not her own driver. And this was certainly not her   
Jaguar.  
  
The road was twisting, causing her to be tossed across   
the floor like a discarded rag doll. It's potholed   
nature brought on her familiar travel sickness. The only   
journey she remembered being so rough was the road past   
her old home in Barnet, out towards the industrial end of   
town. But her coherent thoughts were scrambled by yet   
another dip in the highway. She strained to recall what   
had led to her being here, but it was in vain. So she   
decided to panic about what the grime was doing to her   
custom-made costume. How would she explain this to   
wardrobe department? Then she felt something warm   
trickle down her forehead, which felt suspiciously like   
blood. Great. On top of everything else, she would have   
a hideous scar on her forehead.   
  
The van came to a sudden halt, lurching her forward and   
over an upturned crate. Winded, Marion barely   
registered the blast of night air as the van's rear door   
opened. Nor did she notice the shadowy figure; too much   
in pain to care as his strong hands gripped her   
shoulders. It was only when he began to drag her towards   
the open air that she began to mount a feeble protest.   
Her sharp pain was replaced by blind panic. Who was   
this? What did they have planned? Why was this   
happening? In her desperation, she lashed out at her   
captor, her blunt heels catching him square in the shin.   
The overpowering reek of his cheap aftershave and sweat   
lessened slightly as he retreated, howling in agony. His   
stream of invectives was welcome in comparison. Still,   
Marion knew this man's personal hygiene routine was the   
least of her worries. He recovered soon enough, dragging   
her cowering form onto the muddy ground. The Armani   
dress was done for now. Her scream was met by a harsh   
slap, so she decided to preserve her voice for when she   
was out of hitting distance. Her frustration was   
magnified by her inability to check whether her phone was   
still in her dress, thanks to her excruciatingly tied   
wrists.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *   
Backstage at the Adelphi  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Mulder and Scully stepped aside as the Scotland Yard   
detectives questioned the backstage crew. The security   
tapes revealed the kidnapper to be the same peculiar man   
that had caught Mulder's attention in the audience.   
Already, the police had this down as a stalking case.   
  
Mulder still felt there was something more to this.   
Something they were all missing. Why had the tight-knit   
backstage crew not noticed a stranger in their midst?   
Granted, post-performance would be a sort of organised   
chaos, but it was a secure area where the staff had not   
changed in over a month. And for this man to be dressed   
so differently – all in black with a long coat. Mulder   
fought to keep images from Phantom of the Opera out of   
his mind. He was drawn to thoughts of mind control and   
illusionment. Was this another Robert Modell?  
  
Scully watched her partner's investigative brain slowly   
tick into overload. His desire to eat dinner with her   
replaced by the thrill of yet another chase. Maybe she   
should just be grateful their suspect was human. At   
least, Mulder was buying that theory at present. Then   
she noticed the girl trying to avoid attention, hovering   
at the door. She looked like she was about to make a   
break for it. Cautiously, so as not to startle the girl,   
Scully sidled up to her. With a firm grip on the   
terrified employee's arm, she leaned in to whisper,  
  
"If you don't want to tell those officers, you're   
going to tell me. Now walk quietly outside with me,   
don't cause a scene."  
  
Scully felt ridiculous with the cloak-and-dagger   
approach, but she had learned through the years that   
playing it by the book didn't always get results. With a   
flick of her head, she motioned Mulder to follow, leaving   
the throng of excitable thespians behind.  
  
In the muggy London air, Scully drew herself up to her   
full height. It was hardly intimidating, but it might   
just be enough. Mulder masked his confusion well,   
letting her take the reins for once.  
  
"You obviously know more than you want to tell. We   
can pass it on without involving you. But we need you to   
tell us whatever you're hiding. It could save Marion's   
life. You don't want to feel guilty if anything goes   
wrong."  
  
The girl let out a shaky sigh, and aged about ten years   
as her features relaxed. Rubbing her temples lightly, a   
tear rolled down her face. As though fighting some inner   
battle, she chose her words carefully.  
  
"I'm not certain about all of this. All I know for   
sure is who that man is. Joel Brightman – we used to   
call him 'The Hamster' at stage school."  
  
"That's a start. Thank you. What's your name? And   
is there anything else you can tell us, no matter how   
silly it might seem?"  
  
"I'm Myra. Myra Courteney. Marion, Joel and I all   
were in the same classes at Aida Foster. Oh, that's our   
stage school. You don't exactly sound 'local'. Anyway,   
I'm getting off track. You see, Joel was never all that   
talented. He was average, but everyone knew he got into   
the school because of his mother's money. And he knew   
what we all thought of him."  
  
"He had a bit of a crush on Marion, you see. She was   
never interested – always going after established men,   
people to help her career. And it always wound him up.   
Then, they both went up for parts in the same show. We   
had just graduated, so everyone was being pretty   
cutthroat, it was important to succeed then. In short,   
Marion got the female lead, and Joel wasn't given the   
time of day. She went on to pretty big things, and he   
never really made it."  
"We didn't think much of it. Marion was made to be a   
star, I'm sure you've read about her in the papers often   
enough. She's as famous for being off the stage and   
acting up as she is on it. But she's the 'big cheese';   
it's an accepted fact. I'm an assistant director, I'm   
happy with that. But Joel, he had a jealousy problem.   
He used to send cards to her every opening night, Good   
Luck cards with 'bad' written over it. Lots of childish   
things. But that stopped two years ago, round about when   
Marion was working in America. That's why we all let our   
guard down."  
  
Exhausted from her outburst, Myra burst into tears.   
Tears for her friend, but Mulder suspected they were also   
for her own failing. She wasn't to blame, but there   
would be no telling her that. Scully looked to him for   
guidance. He stepped in gratefully, the questions   
seating into his brain.  
  
"Can you let us see Marion's personal effects? Is   
there anything that might help us?"  
  
Myra paused for a moment, apparently lost in thought.  
  
"Well, if you've seen her dressing room, I can take   
you to her house – it's only a few streets away. Su...   
there'll be someone there to let us in. Just let me get   
my car keys."  
  
Mulder smiled his encouragement to the young woman, her   
sparky determination was endearing. He wondered what she   
had tripped up on saying, but figured it wasn't much to   
worry about. He heard Scully's light sigh, and shot her   
a sympathetic glance. It wasn't his intention to ruin   
her holiday, but maybe it would earn them some brownie   
points at the conference.   
  
As Myra reappeared, flustered by the urgency, her weak   
smile was gone. But the determination was slowly edging   
out her fear. He just had to hope they didn't get in   
trouble for skipping official channels yet again.   
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Uncertain location, half an hour later  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Marion felt the temporary blindfold lifted, her eyes   
squinting to adjust to the light. Maybe screaming hadn't   
been wise, since the idiot had gagged her and tied a   
dirty handkerchief round her eyes. When she got out of   
this mess, he would be getting more than an ear bashing.   
And then she saw his face.  
  
So familiar, she couldn't quite place it. She obviously   
knew him. Was it another obsessed fan who hadn't gotten   
his signed photo quickly enough? Well, as long as this   
strange dark-haired man gave up the game soon enough, she   
didn't honestly care if he was the head of the Olivier   
committee.  
  
"Forgotten me already Marion? I'd have thought you'd   
be better at remembering men by now. Still, with the   
amount of men you've slept with, a little memory lapse is   
to be expected. But they won't save you now, not even   
Tom. Because I'm going to pay you back for a few things.   
And I won't be using mummy's money to do it."  
  
The sickening realisation sent her head spinning, as his   
hands closed in towards her throat.  
  
PART 4  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Undisclosed warehouse, near Barnet  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
The Hamster. Joel something was his real name. She   
remembered stage school, with her precocious friends. He   
had been the one they all disliked, the guy who bought   
his way in. Brightman, that was his surname. Why the   
hell does that matter, her mind was screaming. He's   
going to strangle you. Keep calm, Marion; just think of   
a way out. Talk. If she got his interest, his hands   
would move away.  
  
"I remember you Joel. I don't think I ever forgot.   
Whatever this is about, can't we talk over drinks?   
Instead of well...this place. Why don't you tell me what   
this is about?"  
  
She breathed a sigh of relief as his hands moved back.   
The strange look on his face was replaced by that of   
concentration. But God, he still looked like a hamster.   
Focus, Marion, he's unstable remember?  
  
"You honestly don't know. That might be cute if it   
wasn't so damn irritating. You can't imagine what I want   
with you. That's the bloody problem, Marion, you only   
ever think of yourself. You've spent so many years with   
people fawning over you, that you think you're above us   
all. The signs were always there. You had to be the   
lead in every production; if you weren't, you found a way   
to steal the show anyway."  
  
"Joel, I just wanted what we all did - to make it.   
Don't think I haven't worked for this..."  
  
"Worked? Maybe as a hooker, but never as an actress.   
You got where you are by sleeping with any available guy.   
Like you did with Tom. You were average, going nowhere   
until he dragged you into the limelight. Stupid   
bastard."  
  
Marion felt the familiar wave of anger sweeping over her   
as Joel's contemptuous gaze met hers. How dare he? The   
man who'd done nothing since he left drama school. Last   
she heard he was working in Our Price, having been thrown   
out of one of his rare shows. And he dared to discredit   
everything she'd done - the awards, the reviews, the   
magazines and albums? It was utter cheek, coming from   
him.  
  
But he sensed her anger.  
  
It wasn't a good thing. Before she could think she found   
herself hurtling to the floor with her cheek stinging.   
Tears welled in her eyes - he was really going to hurt   
her. Then she felt his bony fingers tangling in her   
hair. The searing pain in her scalp eradicated the   
sensation of rising from the ground. The bastard was   
dragging her by the hair. A style that took 40 minutes   
every night. But the anger faded, she was exhausted from   
three hours of singing on stage. She couldn't fight him   
- he was at least a foot taller and double her width.   
And he knew it. He was completely in control, and she   
was powerless. The nausea returned as she was half-  
dragged, half-carried towards a raised platform in the   
middle of the floor. She closed her eyes and tried not   
to panic. Her reward was two metal cuffs being strapped   
onto her wrists. Surely he didn't expect *that*.   
  
Apparently not.  
  
Marion opened her eyes to find herself on the platform.   
Her head felt light, like a radio was playing inside it.   
She couldn't quite form a thought, words were just   
slipping away. Was she dying? Is this what it felt   
like? She was snapped back to full consciousness by his   
voice. But he wasn't speaking aloud. For Christ's sake,   
he was talking inside her head.  
  
"Now Marion, you claim to be a good actress. I'm   
going to do a little test. Your favourite song from   
tonight's show is 'With one Look' according to the   
souvenir programme. That interests me greatly."  
  
She tried to ward off the invasive thoughts, screaming   
aloud in a bid to stop him. He just chuckled and carried   
on regardless.  
  
"So, this little experiment will prove one of us   
correct. A field exists around you, very destructive to   
anything or anyone that encounters it. So, here's the   
challenge - I want you to warn the people coming towards   
you away. And there's a catch, you won't be able to   
speak, only use you eyes. That's where your "favourite   
song" comes in. Don't think about cheating, you   
literally won't be able to speak. Think of me as just   
another critic, if you will."  
  
What the hell was he playing at? She opened her mouth to   
scream and no sound came out. What had he done? She   
needed to sing, she was contracted for another month.   
How was he doing this? Then she felt it - the humming   
noise, like an overgrown bumblebee. Something was very   
wrong.  
  
PART 5  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Marion's House, London  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Mulder waited patiently for Myra to let them into the   
flat. She seemed to be expecting someone, and was most   
disgruntled at having to use her keys. But before Scully   
could get more aggravated, the slight woman reappeared in   
the doorway. Ushering them in, she seemed wary of   
someone else's presence. Unwilling to deal with any of   
the usual doubletalk, Scully got straight to the point.  
  
"Who are you looking for Myra? I think it would be   
wise for you to tell us now."  
  
"Marion's... well, her daughter. Except no one knows   
she even has a daughter, apart from a few close friends.   
Her name is Annabelle. She was supposed to come straight   
here from the airport – she must be delayed."  
  
"We don't have to tell anyone. Not yet, at least.   
Does she have a cell phone you could ring her on?"  
  
"Cell phone? Oh, right, I'll call her mobile."  
  
The agents wandered round the immaculate sitting room.   
Nothing seemed to be disturbed, and Scully doubted the   
kidnapper had even been here. But a clue to his   
whereabouts would help. Mulder was drawn to the elegant   
sideboard, displaying a multitude of awards and picture   
frames. Nothing too remarkable, just a reminder of   
Marion's fame. But her partner was obviously about to   
come to a point. Scully prepared to go on the defensive,   
but for once realised Mulder would most likely be right.   
Instead, she readied herself to consider his theory.  
  
"Scully, look at this room. Do you notice anything   
in particular?"  
  
"It's tidy? I suppose you're not used to that."  
  
He shot her a sarcastic glance, but plunged on with his   
hypothesis.  
  
"You see how everything is symmetrical? The sofas,   
the pictures, even the awards?"  
  
"Yeah, but it looks like the awards are slightly off   
centre..."  
  
Mulder's grin told her she had hit the mark. A trophy   
was missing. Marion's theatrical rival had kidnapped   
her, and this centrepiece was missing from her home.  
  
Myra joined them, and then let out a startled gasp.  
  
"The Olivier, it's gone."  
  
Mulder pounced while she was being so open.  
  
"Myra, I want you to look around, to tell us what's   
missing."  
  
"Okay, well, her wedding photo isn't on the fireplace.   
But give me a minute; I can't get hold of Tom. Her ex-  
husband."  
  
That was it. If Mulder had an inkling before, he was off   
and running now. If Scully didn't feel so damn   
disoriented she might be able to keep up. His eyes had   
that glow they always had when he saw a solution in   
sight. But his jaw was set in concern – this was   
obviously more urgent than they had first thought.   
Scully paused for a moment, musing over how very well she   
knew her partner. How she could almost predict the   
situation by just looking at his expression. That she   
could gauge his reaction to certain types of news, and   
even tell what clothes he would wear on a case. Most   
little details, including how he took his coffee and the   
way he chewed his lip when he was trying to conceal   
anger. Details most lovers would only know of each   
other.  
  
But her thoughtful reverie was interrupted by Mulder's   
latest outburst.  
  
"He wants to destroy her. He's been taking personal   
effects, perhaps to taunt her. But he wants to make her   
suffer, then dispose of her. Flash her life before her   
eyes. And I think her ex-husband and her daughter could   
be in danger too. Where would he have gone? Where's he   
based?"  
  
"I don't know. I can't think. What about Tom and   
Annabelle? She's only a child for God's sake."  
  
Tears were careering down Myra's drawn cheeks as she spat   
out the words. It was too much for her to take. Mulder   
turned away – in what? Disgust? Exasperation? It was   
not easy to tell. He headed off into the bedroom, still   
looking for his elusive answers. Was this why he was   
such a good investigator? He never stood still on a   
case, always opening up another route when one closed off   
to him. Scully gave Myra what she hoped was a reassuring   
pat on the arm, and set off in pursuit of her partner.   
She was met by his triumphant smile.  
  
"I've got it."  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Maru's Warehouse, Barnet  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Marion watched as the air around her seemed to stop and   
shiver before her. An inexplicable chill shimmered in   
her spine. A metallic taste filled her mouth, and she   
felt she might faint at any moment. But she could still   
hear him, taunting and teasing.  
  
"Here's a example for you. I doubt you can ward off   
inanimate objects."  
  
Resisting the urge to let her eyes close, Marion watched   
as the Hamster lunged some trophy towards her. She   
flinched instinctively, but it did not hit her. Instead,   
it disintegrated about two feet from her waist. She   
began to cry, it was her Olivier award. The peak of her   
career, that came at no small price – years of hard work.   
And it was destroyed; merely dust on the revolting floor   
of the warehouse. God, could this be much worse?  
  
Then a picture frame came hurtling forward, and she   
flinched again. It was her wedding photo, the happiest   
day of her life. The other copies had been destroyed in   
a fire at her old house. And now it was gone, just like   
her husband. Practically the only man she had ever   
loved. She felt a stretching pain in her chest.  
  
Joel was laughing inside her head, making it feel like an   
empty cathedral. She had survived the sixties and never   
had her mind so badly altered. Marion made one last-  
ditch effort to shut out the noise, the response to which   
was an increase in frequency. It was pointless, being   
chained up like a convict, and powerless to stop Joel   
from destroying her possessions.  
  
"Now, now Marion. The test has yet to begin. Here's   
where you really get to use those pretty blue eyes. Show   
me how you 'won' that Olivier."  
  
To her horror Marion saw Tom walking towards her. He   
seemed dazed, looking past her rather than at her.   
Desperate to scream out, she tried to warn him off with   
her eyes. But to no avail.  
  
She winced, the rate of her tears increasing silently as   
she watched him crumple to the ground. Like the previous   
objects, he had been held for a few seconds, frozen in   
time before the field repelled him. And now he was dead,   
the man who understood her best. Lying there dead   
because some madman held a grudge.   
  
For the first time, Marion felt true grief. Worse than   
divorce, or losing friends. Like someone had stolen the   
air from her lungs. Her hatred for the moment   
overwhelmed by sorrow. But before she could let the   
event sink in, Joel was back, with perhaps his most   
ominous taunt.  
  
"There's a young lady here to see you, Marion..."  
  
PART 6  
  



End file.
